


Reckless

by plethoriall



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 15:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21083744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plethoriall/pseuds/plethoriall
Summary: Tanger and Sid embark on a night of bad decisions during a team barbecue





	Reckless

Sid feels both content and on edge, with his feet dipped into the pool and a glass of whiskey in his hand. The last of summer is ebbing out and the preseason looms. Soon their shoulders will be heavy with the weight of a franchise, the price of doing what they love. But there’s excitement too, and it’s hard not to feel it when surrounded by his team. He closes his eyes and allows himself to zone out. He can hear the shift of the water around him as his teammates try to drown each other, and it’s strangely relaxing if he separates himself from any responsibility.

The night is balmy, the trees full of cicadas, and not even being forced to remind a few of the younger guys, repeatedly, that the pool isn’t deep enough for cannonballs does much to pull his mood off the fence. Some of them have gathered around the barbecue to micromanage the grilling process, to Horny’s increasing annoyance, while others turn to the traditional combo of alcohol and swimming. Sid had fallen into the latter category, deciding he has a better chance of avoiding conversation with the water as a distraction.

He jumps when he feels hands on his thighs.

“Sidney Crosby, professional party spectator.” Tanger’s peering up at him from the water. He’s a little more difficult to look at than usual, having packed on some lean muscle and gotten bronze over the summer.

He learned from virtually growing up in a locker room to monitor where he looked and how long he looked for, not being able to trust his natural instinct to fall into the realm of ‘normal’. He’s perfected the art over the years, but he wonders if there’s ever been a situation in which Tanger didn’t look like a male model. The long, soaked strands of hair framing his face while looking up at him from between his legs doesn’t help.

“I’m drinking, that’s participating.” He waves his glass for emphasis, spilling a little into the pool as he does.

“Most people don’t throw a party then avoid everyone.”

“I’m not avoiding everyone,” Sid protests, but the narrowing of Tanger’s eyes spell nothing good.

“Seriously though, Sid, you and I both know something’s up.”

Sid pauses. How do you explain something you can’t really put a finger on yourself? He could insist nothing’s wrong and endure a long evening of Tanger attempting to drag it out of him that would frustrate them both, or he could be honest and spend a fraction of that time on an awkward conversation.

“I don’t know. Preseason blues, maybe.” It’s vague, and he knows Tanger won’t buy it, not fully.

“Anything particular?”

“Not really.” He pauses, wishing Tanger would back up into the pool a little and give him some space if this was going to get personal. “Sometimes it feels strange to think I’ve had more or less the same routine this time of year since I was drafted.”

“You’re restless,” Tanger says, the smile on his face making it seem like he’s savoring the thought. Sid’s not surprised – most people seem to believe he’d be happiest living his own personal version of Groundhog Day, even outside of his pregame rituals.

“A little. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my life. But people are waiting for me to make a mistake, so I don’t give them the opportunity.”

“So you don’t go out of your comfort zone.”

Sid shrugs. “Pretty much. A prison of my own making, or whatever the saying is.”

“You don’t have to be perfect all the time. Everyone fucks up. It’s half the fun,” Kris points out.

“I never really got the chance to fuck up,” Sid says slowly, holding the glass up to his lips like a security blanket. This is getting too deep, and he’s definitely had enough to drink if he’s being this honest, producing that familiar look in Kris’ eyes. He used to hate that look, back when he thought it was pity and that was the worst thing in the world. But over the years they’ve shared enough that he knows Tanger doesn’t pity him, knows that he understands more than most why he _can’t_ fuck up.

“You can still make bad decisions. Just not public ones.”

“There’s no way to separate the two for me.”

“I disagree. Get in the pool.” Tanger grins up at him, and Sid feels relieved that apparently Tanger got his fill of Sid-tries-self-evaluation. They can go back to bickering as usual. He puts his glass down on the side.

“I’m wearing clothes.”

“You’re not drunk enough to have forgotten how to take your clothes off,” Tanger says slowly. Sid rolls his eyes, knowing full well his cheeks are taking on the pink tinge they often do when he’s chirped. Considering he spends much of his life around hockey players, it’s a wonder he isn’t constantly blushing.

“Fine.” He pushes Tanger’s hands off of him and gets to his feet, proud of himself for not stumbling despite his buzz. He heads over to the patio, stripping down to his boxers to some whistles and heckling from the barbecue crowd. He flips them off, arranging his clothes on a chair before walking back toward the pool. Tanger grins up at him from the water in the way he always does when he gets Sid to do what he wants.

“Fuck off,” Sid mumbles, before sliding into the water. He gasps at the cold coming up to his neck and Tanger cackles beside him. Sid tries to wrestle him under the water, even gets Jake to swim over and assist like the good winger he is, but Tanger evades justice. They spend the ensuing minutes in a strangely organized game of cat and mouse, until Guentz laments not having enough people in the game to implement a 1-3-1 strategy. He realizes his mistake quickly and excuses himself to grab a hotdog, leaving Sid and Tanger to argue about alternative pool defense tactics.

When they finish bickering, mostly by agreeing to force Geno to cast a tie-breaking vote later, Tanger puts his hands under Sid’s armpits from behind and Sid squeals in an undignified way until he’s certain he’s not being tickled. Instead Tanger pulls on him until he gets the hint, letting his legs rise off the pool floor to float, and Tanger steers him like a ship.

He leads him towards the far corner of the pool, where the glow of the pool lights is near nonexistent and Sid usually refuses to swim near at night because of an episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark he’d seen as a kid. The water feels cooler, too, although he knows that’s a trick of the mind. It’s like their own corner of the world. When he leans against the side, Tanger is mostly an outline against the night sky.

“How drunk are you?”

“Got a decent buzz. Not driving any cars, probably shouldn’t be in a pool, but not Dumo level.”

Tanger nods, runs his hand through his hair. Sid can just about see that the smile has disappeared from his face – he looks serious, moving water faintly reflecting onto his skin. He’s about to ask what’s wrong when arms come up to bracket him against the side of the pool.

“Do you trust me?” Tanger whispers, and he’s suddenly right in his space, pushing closer until they’re chest to chest. Sid feels his nipples harden against the colder skin, and barely dares to breath. Something deep within Sid’s mind clicks into place.

“Of course,” he says so quietly he’s not sure he’s been heard. Part of him is aware he knows the answer anyway, doesn’t need to hear it. Tanger leans forward, the press of their lips together so soft it hardly counts before they part again. He knows Tanger’s waiting to see if he freaks out, if he read the signs wrong. Sid can almost hear his own brain frantically trying to process it, but finds he doesn’t care, not right now.

He brings his hand up to Tanger’s jaw, can barely see his eyes in the darkness, but he watches the light in them disappear as they slide shut, pushing their lips together in a fiercer kiss. He blocks out everything except their lips parting, the warmth of Tanger’s mouth superior to the chill of the pool. They lose track of time, their tongues slide together in a way that’s somehow both slow and filthy, more second round in the bedroom than first kiss. Sid’s mind lights up with the idea there’s another thing they excel at together, then his eyelids light up too and he pushes Tanger away just as they hear the thunder.

It takes a moment after the next fork of lightning across the sky and subsequent roll of thunder for Sid to register that the team is in danger of being added to Wikipedia’s ‘weird deaths’ list.

“Everyone out of the pool!”

There’s a mad scramble in which Jarry knocks a nearly full can of beer into the pool and Horny inexplicably tries to protect the barbecue from the lightning with his bare hands, but eventually everyone is accounted for inside, albeit dripping pool water. Sid grimaces at the pile of wet boxers visible by the patio door, plus the knowledge that everyone who was in the pool is now free-balling. Nobody ever brings swim trunks, and the story repeats itself year after year.

Soon they’re raiding his liquor cabinet and criticizing the lack of variety, while Sid laments the puddles they leave in their wake. He’s got just enough of a buzz not to be trailing behind them with paper towels when they all migrate to the den, so he sinks himself into the couch cushions.

“Here you go, mon chum.” Tanger passes him a glass. Sid frowns – Tanger has obviously made use of the cherry grenadine. But he takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised.

“Good, no?”

“It is,” Sid admits begrudgingly. He can’t taste the alcohol in the drink which either means Tanger barely added any or, more likely, added a ton and went overboard with the mixers to conceal it. But it goes down easy, and it disappears while he spectates yet another Call of Duty match that devolves into screaming. Geno and a group of the others predictably branch off for a card game, then some head the media room to watch a movie he hadn’t quite caught the name, leaving just a handful of them in the den.

He finds it difficult to relax, with Tanger’s thigh touching his on the couch, knowing he’s not wearing underwear, and what happened in the pool still at the forefront of his mind. The memory is already too big to comprehend, something he’ll have to analyze in parts later with a sober brain. In the meantime, his eyes keep drifting towards Tanger’s lips when he speaks, and he knows he’s being too obvious but can’t find the self-control to stop it. Everyone else is just as drunk, if not more, so he promises himself nobody notices. Well, except Tanger. The sly grin he keeps shooting Sid when the conversation turns away sends a rush through him that tells him all he needs to know. Part of him is relieved when he gets up to go check on the card game, that he won’t have to deal with suddenly getting fucking _butterflies_ after over ten years of knowing the man.

Sid hears a loud crash, the sound of breaking glass, closes his eyes and mentally repeats his mantra. _They’re adults, they’re adults, they’re adults_. He’s not sure why they’re treating the period right before the preseason like the last days of Rome, and he really has no idea why they’ve chosen the annual pre-preseason barbecue to do it.

As the night progresses a new glass is thrust into his hand each time the one he’s holding is empty, a familiar occurrence from years of people trying to loosen him up at parties. It helps, especially as the party completes its transition from the intended get-together, to drunken chaos, and finally into mass unconsciousness. He remembers Jake hugging him for a prolonged period of time and saying something emotional in the way he does when he’s drunk, but otherwise time blurs together.

-

The only light in the den is from the TV, still glowing with the menu screen for Resident Evil and creating a post-apocalyptic atmosphere for the aftermath of the party. Most of the participants are passed out throughout the house, deciding that instead of calling an Uber, sleeping on the floor counts as a team building activity. Only the older ones on the team had slurred something about beds before staggering off. Sid had spent an hour playing against Dumo on COD, then watching him try not pass out playing Resident Evil as he approached the bottom of his drink. The drink won, and Sidney’s spent the last ten minutes idly on his phone, too comfortable to move from his nest of pillows and blankets on the couch.

He looks up when Tanger enters the room with an armful of Gatorades, depositing one by where he assumes Dumo must have passed out behind the armchair.

“Been putting these in strategic locations,” he explains as he slumps down onto the couch beside Sid, dumping one bottle into his lap and the remaining bottles onto the coffee table.

“Buddy, that’s the best idea you’ve had all night.” Sid smiles, twisting the cap off his. It feels good to know someone’s looking after the team, that it doesn’t just fall to him. He’s incredibly lucky with his alternates, the amount of trust he can give them and not be let down. Geno might complain a lot, but if he needed him at four in the morning, he’d be there. Tanger might be stubborn during practice, but he also does stuff like this.

“To being the last survivors,” Tanger says, knocking his Gatorade against Sid’s. They drink with some smugness – it feels good to be the last ones standing when the beginning of the evening had involved a lot of age related chirping. When Sid finishes his bottle, he leans back into the cushions.

“Sid.”

“What?” Sid mumbles, turning his head just enough to see Tanger’s smile. His hand comes up to his jaw, and his brain comes back online quicker than it had earlier, now able to recognize that look in Tanger’s eyes. He feels his lips responding with a smile of their own, before they once again meet Tanger’s. He pushes closer, eager to deepen the kiss after hours of replaying the first one. He can still taste whiskey and barbecue, and he’s desperate. He hadn’t been sure if it was something that would ever happen again, or if it would be added to the long list of incidents marked ‘never speak of’, right next to the time Seguin wanted to show him some photos on his phone and scrolled too far.

They read each other like they do on the ice, trying out different rhythms and playing off the responses, things escalating every step of the way. Sid’s hand slides under Tanger’s t-shirt, finally getting to touch the lean muscle he’d been trying not to eye. He lets the other lightly stroke over the fabric stretched over Tanger’s erection, drawing a sigh out of the other man. Tanger’s fingers dig into his lower back, trailing down below the waistband of his shorts. He feels feverish – his body is like an open nerve, extra sensitive to every touch. He can’t stop the soft moan that escapes when Tanger slides a finger between his cheeks, just resting over his hole.

Then Tanger is pulling away, disentangling himself. Sid opens and closes his mouth, an undercurrent of fear washing through him that some line he was unaware of had been crossed. Was touching him there an accident? Was he disgusted that he liked it? His chest feels as cold as it did getting into the pool.

“I’ll be right back.” Tanger gets off the couch, weaving his way through the obstacle course of mess left by the others and out of the room.

Sid stares when he returns, carrying what he can tell even in the dim lighting is a bottle of lube.

“What do you need that for?”

“Take a wild guess.” Tanger grins while taking back his spot on the couch. Sid shakes his head.

“We can’t do that here.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a night of bad decisions.”

“Yeah, bad decisions. Doing that here is a terrible decision.”

“The night of terrible decisions,” Kris agrees, and pulls on Sid’s shoulder to get him closer.

“We could just go to my bedroom.”

“We can’t, when I was being the Gatorade fairy I counted like three guys in there.”

“_What-_“

“Relax.”

“Kris,” Sid protests, but is quickly silenced once more by Tanger’s lips. He halfheartedly pushes at his chest, but he loves his lip being bitten, and apparently he’s obvious enough that Tanger has figured out what buttons to push in less than an evening. The remnants of alcohol in their systems makes it easier to brush off the risk than it should be. Soon they’re kissing filthier than before, palming at each other through their clothes, keeping each other quiet with their mouths.

It feels like a fever dream when they’re making out, and then when they pull off their shorts it feels too real, like seeing Tanger’s erection and the responding twitch of his own is the biggest line he’ll cross all night. He steels himself, not allowing the doubts to take hold and focusing on what he _wants_. They keep their t-shirts on, an unspoken agreement that if this is going to happen, it has to be quick.

Tanger pulls him into his lap, and Sid quickly transfers some of his weight to his legs on either side. Two hundred pounds of hockey player is not a comfortable weight to contend with, even for another hockey player. The position rests their cocks against each other, and Sid sighs at the heat and friction of rubbing them together. He puts his arms around Tanger’s neck, bracketing him in and trailing kisses along his neck. The grip on his hips tightens, before he feels one hand trail up below his t-shirt, stroking his lower back. The other one dips down lower, a fingertip coming to rest against his hole just as before. He moans softly, turning his face away from Tanger, and _holy fuck, _immediately pulls back from the embrace.

“We really shouldn’t do this, Dumo is _right there_,” Sid whispers, pointing at the pair of legs just visible behind one of the armchairs. He’d known Dumo was over there, but visual evidence drives the point home, no matter how much Tanger tries to distract him with kisses. He wonders if there are any more of his teammates are passed out nearby.

“Put the blanket over,” Kris suggests, pulling at one of the blankets on the couch. Sid gives him a withering look.

“That’ll fool him, eh? This is such a dumb idea.”

“Dumb idea, but you’re not going anywhere.” He kisses up Sid’s jaw and towards his ear, hot breath and the pounding in his chest convincing Sid that he’s right, the finger circling his entrance underlining it. No matter how stupid it is, there’s no way he’s stopping. Maybe he can allow himself this night, after years of watching those around him do stupid things, then brush it off in the morning and act like nothing happened. Maybe it really is his turn to be a dumbass.

“Turn off your brain, for once in your life. Do what feels good,” Tanger whispers.

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Sid mumbles, but he stays still, even through Tanger’s muted laughter and the sound of the lube being opened. 

“Give me some as well,” Sid whispers, holding his palm out. He can almost sense the raised eyebrow as Tanger obeys, without being able to see it in the darkness. He grins when he gets a gasp in response to curling his slick hand around Tanger’s erection, feeling it twitch. He wants to get it in his mouth, see how far he can take it before the tears start leaking from his eyes, get his face fucked like he sometimes thinks about when he’s jerking off. He’s grateful he’s not drunk enough to say any of it out loud.

“First one,” Tanger says softly. Sid’s shaking a little, and he’s not entirely sure why. He’s fingered himself before, enough for it not to be foreign. It’s different with someone else doing it, but he trusts Tanger. He suspects most of the nerves are probably to do with their decade long friendship heading somewhere he never dared imagining it going. He leans forward to push his face into Tanger’s neck, reluctant to make eye contact while it happens. He still smells faintly like chlorine. Tanger holds his finger motionless once it’s fully seated, and Sid allows himself to relax and lean back – it feels strange, but not unpleasant.

“There you go,” Tanger whispers, his other hand stroking along Sid’s thigh. He starts to slowly work the finger in and out, twisting a little as he does. Sid pushes their cocks together and mirrors the pace with his hand, his head bowed as he feels mesmerized by the sight. When Tanger adds the second finger, he tightens his grip. By the third one, and when Tanger target fixates on his prostate, he’s fully given up on stroking, instead holding onto his shoulders for support.

Sid moans into Tanger’s neck, trying his best to muffle it. He’d never been good at keeping quiet, but right now even the slick sounds of Kris’ fingers in his ass feel obscenely loud. If anyone saw what was happening, there would be no end to the chirping - he’d have to request a trade. He knows they shouldn’t be doing it, but it feels so fucking good, and the _wrongness_ is fading from paranoia into lust. He’s learning all kinds of things about himself tonight.

“Quiet,” Kris whispers. His voice is breathy and Sid feels the muscles in his shoulder working in time to his pleasure. Sid marvels at how after a decade of knowing him, he can discover something entirely new, like the feel of Tanger’s beard on his skin, the quick breaths of his arousal. The risk of being caught settles like a pool of arousal in his stomach, and he grinds against Tanger’s cock in response. Tanger’s responding groan reverberates into his shoulder, and his pace speeds up. When he withdraws his fingers entirely, Sid whines in the back of his throat before he can stop himself, thankful Kris probably can’t see his face going crimson in the semi-darkness. Tanger grabs ahold of him and maneuvers him to the side, pushing him onto his stomach.

Sid tenses when he feels Tanger’s hand clasp over his mouth, before forcing himself to relax. It probably won’t be painless but he can at least try not to be walking weird in the morning. Tanger’s lips are on the back of his neck, sucking and kissing to distract him while he starts to push in. Sid moans low against his fingers, clenching his arms around one of the couch pillows and shifting his hips to try to lessen the stretch. When he finally feels hipbones against his ass, he lets out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Tanger stills, moving his hand from Sid’s mouth, stroking his back under his t-shirt.

“Doing good, Sid.”

Sid nods, but doesn’t speak. He can’t. A few moments pass of stillness, the only sound some heavy snoring from near the armchair. His brain keeps reminding him of the absurdity of the situation, on his stomach on the couch with one of his best friends’ dick in his ass. And Dumo on the floor nearby. Eventually the stretch gives way from burning discomfort to something more tolerable, and he experimentally pushes back. He hears a soft moan in response, all the encouragement he needs to start a slow rhythm. Tanger gets the message and takes over, driving in and out, pushing up against Sid’s ass like he might be able to get even deeper. He starts picking up the pace-

“Slow, slow, slow,” Sid says frantically. Tanger freezes for a moment, before his brain apparently registers Sid hadn’t said _stop_ and he goes back to a steady, deliberate rhythm. His breathing is strained with the effort to stay gentle. Sid reminds himself again to relax, loosening his grip on the pillow and unclenching his toes. The discomfort is gradually giving way to feeling _good_, and he loses himself in chasing that feeling.

The weight of Tanger pushes him into the couch, the friction on his cock just on the rougher side. The position is awkward as fuck and he has no control over the pace, but he finds that he’s adjusted enough for that realization to send an extra jolt of arousal though him. He angles his hips a little more- _god_, he’s lighting up on every thrust and he knows this won’t be the last time he does this.

Sid groans into the pillow, and fuck, the feeling of Kris’ beard at the back of his neck is definitely a thing for him. He _needs_ to touch himself. He works one arm beneath him to squeeze his dick, hand wet with precum then travelling further back, past his balls to feel Tanger’s slapping against him. He lets out an embarrassing whine, his dick twitching at the mental image of Tanger pressing into him. 

All attempts at staying quiet are futile, with the jagged breathing and slap of skin on skin. Tanger has one arm locked around his chest for leverage, his thrusts hard and relentless.

“Kris. Kris, _please_.” He’s so close he feels like he might die if he doesn’t come.

“I got you.” His hand reaches around to join Sid’s in messily squeezing and stroking him, too hindered by the position and movement to properly get ahold. A few more strokes and he’s making a mess against their hands and the couch, shoving his fingers into his own mouth to keep from crying out.

He’s clenching around Tanger, oversensitive from coming and still getting fucked hard and urgent, his spent cock rubbing against the couch. “God, fuck, fuck, _fuck_,” he whines before going completely incoherent. His brain feels scrambled by the time Kris spills inside of him, groaning out against his neck, his whole body arching into those final thrusts.

“Fuck, Sid, that was..” he trails off, pushing the damp strands of hair out of his eyes. They lay together for a few moments before Tanger pulls out, both of them reluctant to move and end the afterglow so quickly, but still aware they need to make what just happened less obvious.

The clean up is sobering, but doesn’t tame the after-sex warmth that seems to spread throughout his body. His shoulders are loose, and he feels lighter, after they both get dressed. Not even scrubbing at the potential stains he’d left on the sectional does much to subdue his mood. He’s done perhaps the riskiest thing he’s done in his life and the sky didn’t fall down. No one walked in. A little secret between him and Tanger.

They settle back onto the sectional with Tanger on the chaise part, and Sid retreating into his nest of blankets on the part they just fucked on. He’s both relieved and disgusted to discover the only real trace left after the clean up is the pillow he’d apparently drooled on during. He tosses it toward Tanger, who flips him off.

“Now I regret giving you Gatorade.”

“It’s my Gatorade, you got it from my fridge.”

“Whatever, Squid.” He reaches out to pat Sid’s ankle. “You feeling sore?”

Sid grimaces. They’ve started talking at normal volume about something that definitely should be a whisper. “A little. Nothing too bad.”

“If you’re sore in the morning, let me know. I’ll make it up to you.” Tanger grins and raises his eyebrows repeatedly. It makes Sid sad that he’s already thrown the wet pillow.

“Oh god, you’re the worst,” Sid mumbles, sinking further into the blankets to hide his burning face. He pauses. “Maybe.” He sees Tanger’s grin and resolutely turns to face the back of the couch, focusing on the content ache in his body. He knows that tomorrow he’ll be angry at himself for taking the risk, wonder whether he’s fucked up his friendship with Tanger. Wonder whether they’ve started heading for something more than friendship, what kind of repercussions that would have on the team. He finds that he doesn’t really care right now, all of that is a problem for future Sid. He smiles to himself as he drifts into sleep.

-

“Guys, why’s there lube on the coffee table?”

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly dubious consent tag is precautionary because of sex + drinking. Also because sex happens with a sleeping person in the same room
> 
> This pairing doesn't get enough love, so I decided to make a contribution. Still pretty rusty on the writing, so bear with me!


End file.
